“What else can we do but try to fix it?” Haf says.
Mairwen scoffs. “We don’t know which part is broken!”
But it’s Bree who murmurs, “My mom says John’s hand is the only different thing.”
“That we know of,” Mair says darkly, thinking of the monstrous deer. “And by the rules of the bargain, he did nothing wrong by surviving and leaving his hand behind.”
“That we know of?” Haf suggests with a wince.
Mair grits her teeth, longing for the cold shade of the forest’s edge. “Exactly. I want to know.”
“But how could you discover it without riskingeverythingbreaking?”
“There’s no rule keeping anybody from going into the forest any other night of the year. We just don’t, because we’re afraid of the devil.”
Haf’s eyes widen. “For good reason.”
Bree says, “You can’t.”
“That’s what everybody says,” Mairwen cries.
“Maybe,” Haf says softly, “try to find something youcando. That won’t risk the saint, or the bargain.”
“Like make pastries and bless the saint shirt. John had all those things.”
“And John survived.”
“The bargain didn’t.”
There’s nowhere else to take the argument. Everything comes back to the same: Mairwen is not allowed to do anything useful. She’ll make her own charms for Rhun, she thinks, to protect him.
When the pastries are all pinched, full of sweet meat and gooseberries, they load them into a basket, layered carefully with linen, and carry it toward town. Windows are flung open in the houses they pass; chatter and laughing spills out into the muddy lanes. Children run freer than usual, unleashed for the afternoon to play devils and saints or mirror the older boys’ games of shooting and strength and balance. The tiniest Rees cousins have braided their hair together and gallop past, giggling and shrieking like a six-legged beast. Older boys dash after, arguing who will slay the red dragon of Grace Mount. Mair decides to shuck this dark, dour mood if she’s able, as her mother suggested. For the runners.
As they approach the square they sense a shift in the air: still celebratory, but tenser, heavier. Haf says she’ll deliver the pastries for baking and join Mair and Bree to watch the boys.
Five paces later Mairwen stops at the corner of the Royal Barrel. The bonfire is finished: dead branches piled against each other, stacked and leaning, twice times her height. Evergreen boughs decorate it like fur, and sprigs of thistle and rosemary and burdock, too. Fennel and leeks surround the base, some dried blooms and some bulbs, for prosperity and luck.
It’s magnificent, and will burn for hours.
The runners cluster in the south curve of the square. They’ve hung the wreath from the stallion upon the bonfire wood. About an arm length wide, it suits as an archery target. All the boys hold their bows and use a communal quiver, though Mairwen recognizes the leather tooling as Rhun’s. Per Argall stands at the chalk line, aiming with very decent form for the youngest of them. Just fifteen last month. It seems half the boys already shot, and though all hit the target, none are too near the center, meaning Rhun has yet to shoot.
Per looses his arrow. It flutters past an evergreen sprig at the edge of the target and disappears into the pile. Beside Mair, Bree claps. As do the rest of the spectators scattered about the square, some chuckling at the bashful way Per flops his hair over his face. He’ll never be a saint, Mair thinks.
His older brother shoots next, only marginally better, and then Rhun and Arthur Couch look to each other. Rhun shrugs one shoulder and smiles, stringing his bow in an easy motion. He takes an arrow, rubs the fletching down his cheek as he’s wont to do, and notches it, aims, looses it casually, as if merely swiping a drink of beer. His arrow flies true and buries itself three fingers off the center of the wreath.
Mairwen can’t help her prideful, tight smile.
Arthur steps up, six previous arrows waiting and only Rhun’s to beat.
He takes more time than Rhun for his turn, relaxing into his pose gracefully instead of with Rhun’s casual skill. Mairwen notes the rise of his shoulders and slow, slow fall as he sighs into the shoot.
The arrow hits true, a single finger off-center.
A loud cheer swirls around the square, led by Gethin Couch, and even Haf murmurs her amazement from beside Mairwen. Rhun grins and claps Arthur around the shoulders, saying something merry but too quiet to hear from the edge. Mairwen smiles too, as Bree applauds, joining in with the rest of the boys, and the long arc of spectating men slapping their hands to their thighs. Too bad for Arthur all these tests aren’t the real way saints are made. They’re only a show, to bring all the candidates together and keep them out of trouble. Tradition.
“It could be him,” Haf says, clutching the basket of pastries to her belly. Mairwen darts a sharp look to her friend. It sounds as though Haf means that to comfort Mair.
“Weren’t you to take those to the bakery?” Mair asks.
